Love Will Steer The Stars
by Gryph
Summary: Sam and Dean have to go undercover at a Woodstock revival concert. Set sometime after Dean gets back from Purgatory and they find the Batcave. Written for the spn bigpretzel Summer Vacation Reverse Bang.


_When the moon is in the seventh house_  
_And Jupiter aligns with Mars_  
_Then peace will guide the planets_  
_And love will steer the stars_

_This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius_  
_The age of Aquarius, Aquarius, Aquarius_

_Harmony and understanding_  
_Sympathy and trust abounding_  
_No more falsehoods or derisions_  
_Golden living dreams of visions_  
_Mystic crystal revelation_  
_And the minds true liberation_

"'Summer of love', Sammy? Really?" Dean asked, the corners of his mouth curling up in a cross between a sneer and a smirk.

"It's a concert, Dean. Given the bands that are playing, I would have thought you'd be chomping at the bit on this one," Sam shot back.

Dean waved a hand at the brightly colored shirts Sam held in each hand. "What's with the tie-dye, Jerry?"

"It's not tie-dye, it's called a dashiki." Sam pulled a half-smirk. "And it's for you."

Dean rolled his eyes and vigorously shook his head. "No. Uh-uh. I am _not_ dressing up like some flower-child, acid-dropping hippie."

"Why is it any different than you wearing your AC-DC shirt to one of their concerts?" Sam pursed his lips in annoyance. "Look, Dean, we need to blend in if we are going to work this case. Everyone is going to be wearing this kind of clothing."

"So an entire auditorium full of dweebs. Awesome." The sarcasm was heavy in his voice.

Sam looked at his feet as he scuffed them across the floor. He murmured something.

"What was that?" Dean demanded.

"A field. Not an auditorium. The concert is in a field in upstate New York."

"A field."

"On a farm."

Dean's eyes grew wide. "No way. Absolutely not."

"But—," Sam began.

"No. A field on a farm means cow patties and porta-johns."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You were mister gung-ho about going back to the old west, putting on a serape and dressing up like Marty McFly out of Back To The Future three—riding horses, outhouses and no clean water, but a Woodstock reunion concert makes you balk? What the hell, Dean?"

"Yeah, and do remember what the old west was like?" Dean grimaced. "That place was a cesspool. Filth, disease. And that was _inside_ the whore-house! I learned my lesson from that place. From now on, I want running water, flushing toilets, and hot showers." Especially since they now had a luxurious base, the Men of Letters bunker, to call home.

"Dean, the sixties were a landmark in American culture. And Woodstock was the ultimate expression of the philosophy of that era. A bunch of people gathering at Max Yasgur's farm, having no idea it would attract almost half a million people. It was four days and nights of living off the grid, relying on the goodwill of each other. Peace, dope, and free love. That's what they were all about. There may not have been running water, but the drugs and sex were flowing freely, and no one cared about—"

Dean perked up and cut him off with a hand gesture. "Whoa there, Professor. Free love? So, chicks putting out? Is that going to be part of this 'revival', too?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but knew he'd found his brother's weakness. Cheeseburgers weren't the only thing Dean had missed while in Purgatory. "Yes, Dean, it is."

Tilting his head to one side with a thoughtful look, Dean lifted the dashiki that still hung from one of Sam's hands. The brightly embroidered borders stood out against the vivid red background fabric. He eyed it critically. "Well, we _do_ have a job there, right? I guess it's our civic duty to go check it out." He cleared his throat and took half a step back, his facade of cool indifference snapping into place. "What's the gig? Tell me we _don't_ have to gank the ghost of Jimi Hendrix!"

"No, but the organizers setting things up are claiming to see," he threw the shirts over the back of a chair and turned the laptop on the table so Dean could see the screen, "'the wandering spirit of an old man, who shakes his fist at everyone he meets'. And get this, they've been experience mysterious problems with all the electrical equipment."

Dean peered more closely at the screen. "Mother Jones?" Dean asked with disdain. "The hell, dude?"

Sam looked vaguely embarrassed. "It's a... it's kind of a new agey blog slash news site." He chuckled dryly. "But look at this headline—'Ghostly Presence Threatens to Cancel "Summer of Love" Music Festival'. They are worried that once attendees start showing up, things could get worse."

Dean's expression turned serious. "Any local lore about the farm?"

"Well, Max Yasgur, whose farm was the site of the original Woodstock, refused to host any revivals. When he died in 1973, his son took over the farm and has welcomed the festival back, but this is the first year that it is actually going to be held there. Some of the speculation is that the ghost is Max, who is trying to run the festival off his land."

"The ultimate 'you kids get off my lawn', huh?" Dean said with a grin.

Sam made a sour face at the joke. "Well, if it is Max, it should just be a simple salt and burn. But we're going to have to go there and pretend to be attendees to scope out the place."

Dean heaved a weary sigh. "All right, all right." He stabbed a finger at Sam. "But no freaky-deeky bell bottom pants. I'll wear the dashimi—"

"Dashiki."

"Whatever. I'll wear the shirt, but I'm wearing plain old Levi's on the bottom." He crossed his arms over his chest with an air of finality.

"Fine." He handed the shirt to Dean, along with a paper bag, which his brother eyed like it might contain a poisonous viper. "Just a pair of sandals and a peace-sign necklace. Try them on, maybe you'll like them."

"When do we leave?"

"Well, the attendees have already started to trickle in to camp. So we should leave as soon as you are ready. I've got the car packed with some camping gear and a cooler of food."

"Beer?" Dean asked, his face lighting up with hope.

"Yes, beer, too." Sam closed the laptop and picked up the other shirt, a psychedelic floral print. "Meet me out at the car when you're dressed." His voice had a strange tone, but Dean was already on his way out of the room.

Dean pulled the dashiki over his head and shrugged his shoulders to settle the shirt comfortably over his chest. He swung his arms experimentally. He had to admit that that the loose, baggy fit was comfortable. And the cotton was really soft against his skin. Slipping the Birkenstock sandals on his feet, he wiggled his toes into the contoured cook footbed and nodded to himself with a quirk of his lips. Cozy. Hell, maybe these hippies did know a thing or two about relaxed clothes. He reached back into the bag and ran his hand along the bottom until he found the necklace. The chain was fairly light, but the round pendant bearing a peace sign would have made Mister T happy. With a shrug, he slipped it over his head. Meh, part of the costume.

He took a look at himself in the full length mirror on the closet door. Not bad. He didn't look nearly as much like a dweeb as he thought he would. In fact, he managed to make even these clothes look cool.

Satisfied, he stuffed a couple of his favorite worn and threadbare band t-shirts and blue jeans into a duffle bag, along with a few more items of clothing, and slung it over his shoulder. Grabbing his jacket in the other hand, he headed for the door.

Humming "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" under his breath, Dean crossed the main room of the Batcave. Iron Butterfly was one of the bands on the schedule to play during the festival. Yeah, maybe this wouldn't be _all_ bad. Especially if they could gank the ghost early and stick around to listen to some of the performances.

The hinges on the thick steel door squealed as Dean pushed it open and stepped into the warm summer air.

He stopped short and dropped his duffle bag to the cement slab.

The Impala, his baby, was covered in brightly colored paint, swirling in psychedelic designs that looked like an acid trip gone bad. And in the middle of both doors were giant peace signs overlaying it all.

Dean's mouth moved like a beached fish while he tried to force something to come out. Meanwhile, Sam spotted him and came darting around the front of the car with his hands held up in placation.

"Dean—,"

Dean found his voice. "SAMMY!" he roared, the horrified expression on his face turning to rage. Dean's furious gaze landed on Sam. "DUDE! MY CAR!"

Sam spoke quickly. "It's temporary paint, Dean. It'll all wash off with a little soap and water. One quick trip through the car wash, and you'll never know it was there."

"You couldn't hotwire some VW microbus instead? You had to do this to... to MY BABY?" He was still shouting.

"The Impala is still on the radar of too many cops, Dean. This is a way to blend in while disguising the car right in plain sight. Trust me, this won't be the only car painted up like this we'll see on the way to New York."

Dean snatched his duffle up from where he'd dropped it and hustled down the stairs. He approached the car like he would a wounded dog, like it would turn and bite him. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and ran it over her unrecognizable fender.

"Don't worry, Baby. Soon as this case is done, I'll set you right." His head snapped up and he gave Sam another piercing glare. "If this shit doesn't come off, you'll be out here scrubbing it with your toothbrush, Sammy. And then she better get a nice buff, wax, and polish. I wanna see my face shining in it when it's done!"

"The car will be fine, Dean. Geez, you act like a deflowered your only daughter or something."

"This is worse. Oh so much worse." He opened the door and threw his duffle over the seat into the back, then slid in behind the wheel. "Your 'Summer of Love' is about to become a 'Highway to Hell'."


End file.
